


with the dark thunder above you

by eighties



Series: twice as many stars [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon Era, Established Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protective Arthur, Scruffy Arthur, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25925794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eighties/pseuds/eighties
Summary: “Father’s pushing me to marry,” Arthur mutters quietly, refusing to meet Merlin’s eyes.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: twice as many stars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877524
Comments: 29
Kudos: 329





	with the dark thunder above you

**Author's Note:**

> my brain went: scruffy arthur? who's also wearing rings? ❤️💘 yes 💘❤️ and then i wrote an angsty 11k about it. 
> 
> no need to read [picture it soft](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25115551) to follow this one, but there are some allusions and metaphors that carry over, so if you're obsessed with those sorts of things like me then you might benefit from a read :)
> 
>  **slight warning** for a brief threat of non-con. 
> 
> unbeta'd.

Merlin finds them out east, backed by the early morning light.

The sun hangs languidly above the horizon, sweet and heavy, bathing the icy, sleet-stiff grass in sparkling gold. Spring has come and brought the beginnings of bloom, but the chill hasn’t left the air yet. Merlin’s skin bristles as he hastes toward the knights’ training grounds, cupping his trembling hands around his mouth to whisper a warming spell. Months ago, he’d come back to his room and found a fur-lined cloak on his bed—dark grey and intricately sewn, a luxury only Arthur could afford to gift—and since then, he hadn’t used a warming spell on himself all winter. Now, the spell falls clumsily from his tongue. It takes him a few tries to get it right. 

Leon, dressed in chainmail and armor, greets him with a faint grin. “Merlin,” he says. “You’re up early this morning.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Sir Leon.” Merlin grins and glances at the two squires Leon is in the midst of training. “You’re making me look an unfit servant in front of the young ones.”

“Ah, we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“Don’t want word of my incompetence getting back to Arthur,” Merlin jests, dragging his eyes across the field, searching the sparring shapes of knights and squires.

Leon only shakes his head, quietly amused. Softer, he tells him, “He’s not here. Left early, just as the sun was dawning.”

Merlin turns back to him. “Did he say why?”

“I don’t think even he knew why. The king pulled him away. Said he needed to speak with him.”

Merlin frowns. The past three nights, he and Arthur have slaved over a proposal for the new season, one that would grant more rations to families in the poorer villages near Camelot’s borders even in harvesting months.

“Father won’t like that we’re allocating rations from the castle itself,” Arthur said, standing hunched over the scroll at his desk, bleary-eyed and frustrated. “Even if he allows it, he’s going to try and bastardize it. Take the rations from—from some other village that’s already barely surviving as is.”

“You don’t know that,” Merlin reassured him, sitting atop the desk, running a haphazard hand through Arthur’s untended hair. He’d grown it longer in the winter months, turning down the shears every time Merlin offered to trim it. 

“I _do_ know that.” Arthur’s voice was sharp. “He’ll say it’s their choice to live so far from the heartland. Or he’ll say there’s a reason those villages are so poor; they are often refuging magic users. And then he’ll say, ‘if they were really so hungry, they’d magic themselves some grain,’ as if they wouldn’t fucking _die_ for doing so.”

Merlin didn’t respond. After Arthur had found him out, nearly a year before, Merlin had sworn to himself he wouldn’t interfere with Arthur’s slow but hopeful warming to magic. He knew Arthur’s affection for him was the catalyst for his change of heart, and he often indulged in Arthur when he got curious late in the night: he sparked a fire in the hearth with only a blink, he whispered the constellations into Arthur’s ceiling, he let vines glide in through Arthur’s open window and curl around Arthur’s wrists and fingers as Arthur sat, beaming, bewitched by the land’s love for him. But when it came to legislature and magic’s existence outside of Merlin, he bit his tongue and left Arthur to discover his own opinions. He spent his whole childhood influenced by his father’s hatred; Merlin wasn’t going to let Arthur go through that again, not even by Merlin’s own hand. If Arthur was going to be Albion’s golden king, he needed to learn this, to open himself to this, on his own accord. 

Arthur looked at him, nearing defeat. “He will say no.”

“Then you’ll change his mind,” Merlin said, with all the confidence and belief and loyalty he held for Arthur. It overwhelmed him, sometimes, the enormity of his feelings. He imagined his devotion a pool, so deep he could swim and swim and never reach the bottom.

Arthur nodded, easing back. His eyes were the color of the sky just before dawn. “One day, you’ll be able to credit yourself in these proposals too,” he told Merlin. _When I am king_ went unsaid, but Merlin heard it anyway. 

Merlin’s chest bloomed, bright and warm as spring. He grinned, only for Arthur. “Promise?” he said, and the word had barely left his mouth before Arthur’s hand slid to the back of his head and he was tugging him into a kiss. 

Back at the training grounds, Leon dismisses his squires to the armory.

“How’d he look when Uther called for him?” asks Merlin.

Leon considers it. “He looked confused, then—then perhaps concerned.”

Merlin swallows. Perhaps it wasn’t that bad. Perhaps Uther hadn’t read too much into the proposal and agreed to enact it with little fuss. Perhaps he even granted Arthur a rare moment of praise—something Merlin knows, even as Arthur pulls farther and farther away from his father’s grip, would please him to his core.

Merlin nods at Leon, once, twice. “Alright. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later, yeah?” he says, stumbling backwards, before turning and walking toward the yawning castle, stirring to life from the night’s slumber. 

+

Cook looks at him with a narrowed gaze. “The prince has already eaten,” she deadpans. “He breakfasted with the king early this morning.”

Merlin purses his lips. Dammit. “Well, he’s hungry again,” he lies. “And who are we to deny his highness a second breakfast? He’s a growing… man, you know.”

Cook looks entirely unconvinced. Still, she sighs, and orders one of the kitchen maids to put together a tray. “Half portions,” she instructs icily, eyeing Merlin. He grins back at her innocently.

In his rooms, Arthur leans on the wall beside the windowsill, awash in the golden light of morning. He often takes the same position when storms roll into Camelot; near the window, a blanket tugged around his bare shoulders, his calm eyes watching over the land, the sky, each whiplash of lightning turning his skin translucent. He was beautiful at any time, Merlin thought, but he was especially beautiful then: soft, wide-open, looking at the thing he loved most. 

Merlin balances the breakfast tray on one palm and shuts the door as quietly as he can with the other. Arthur doesn’t stir, doesn’t even look at Merlin until he sets the tray down on the small dining table.

“I’ve already eaten,” Arthur grumbles, turning back to the window.

“I heard,” Merlin replies, then sits at the table and begins to pick at the half portion of dark, mapled ham. He expects Arthur to join him, never one to deny a sweet roll, but Arthur remains at his spot near the window. He twists and twists one of the rings around his finger; a habit he only returns to when he’s thinking, or nervous, or both. 

Eventually, as Merlin chews, the silence becomes too much to bear.

“What did the king say of the proposal?”

There’s a moment, a hesitance. “He’ll pass it as is.”

Merlin brightens. “Arthur, that’s fantastic.”

Arthur does not respond. There’s no change in his expression. 

Slick, cold realization crystalizes in Merlin’s chest. His magic rouses at his fingertips, fierce and bitter. No one but Arthur truly knows what it means to have Uther Pendragon as a father, but Merlin’s witnessed enough to recognize the king’s tricks, his habits, his tendency to nip at Arthur’s weak spots like a vulture picking at a carcass.

“He wants something of you in return,” Merlin says. 

The muscles in Arthur’s jaw pull taught. He looks down at his hands, his rings, spinning and spinning them.

“Father’s pushing me to marry,” he mutters quietly, refusing to meet Merlin’s eyes. Merlin can tell he’s livid on the inside, though, his anger ready to bubble up and spill out of him. Arthur meets every upsetting thing with quiet fury and an inability to voice his emotions. An affliction born from a childhood beneath Uther’s reign, Merlin knows.

“With Morgana… leaving,” Arthur continues, “he says Camelot’s court looks weak. He’s invited both of King Eifion’s heirs to the Gwanwyn feast.”

The food on the tray turns unappetizing. “The twins,” Merlin mutters.

“Yes, the twins, Merlin.” A sigh. “Upon my betrothal to Princess Iona, he promises he will enact the rationing law.”

A stifling quiet falls over the room. Outside, Merlin can hear the distant shouting of knights on the sparring grounds, of tradesmen bustling about the citadel, of bare tree branches rattling in the wind, aching with the promise of spring.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes, his own ache unfurling in his chest.

Arthur says nothing, his jaw clamped shut, but Merlin notices the change in his face anyway, the emotion that escapes him—a flicker of grief, of hopelessness, quick as a strike of lightning. 

Merlin knows already how this will turn out. They’ve both known it, to some degree, all along. By tomorrow, two weeks before the Gwanwyn feast, they will have smothered the flame they’ve been nourishing for nearly a year. Merlin will no longer warm Arthur’s bed, whispering spells into the dark of his room, watching Arthur’s eyes glow bright with awe and something else, something open and tender and swelling. He will no longer creep about the castle late at night, moving in shadow between Gaius’ and Arthur’s chambers, magicking guards and servants so the secret they share remains theirs.

By midsummer, Arthur will marry. It is the storm Merlin’s seen brewing on the horizon since the moment he first felt affection for Arthur spark in his chest. 

Knowing it’s approaching, preparing for it all these months, does not lessen the ache it brings.

Merlin stands up, knocking over a pitcher of water and spilling it all over the table and floor.

“ _Christ,_ Merlin _,”_ Arthur hisses, “have you a malady?”

But Merlin pays no mind to his agitation or to the water pooling on the stone, gathering in the cracks like spilled blood. Instead, he’s moving to stand before Arthur, settling Arthur’s fidgeting hands with his own, murmuring “Arthur,” again and again, his voice growing stronger but no less gentle. He brings a hand to the curve of Arthur’s jaw, soothing it, and Arthur thaws almost immediately. He falls into Merlin’s space as if he cannot help it.

“I—” Arthur begins, turning his face into Merlin’s shoulder, but he cannot finish.

“I know,” Merlin says.

“The law must be passed, Merlin.”

“I know.”

“You did not see them—they—the children were skin and bone, and the adults were no better—”

“Arthur,” Merlin hushes him, sliding his hand to cradle the back of Arthur’s head. He knows the importance of this rationing law better than anyone, even Arthur. Arthur was only on patrol when he witnessed winter’s cruel and unforgiving nature toward small, poor villages. Merlin was once a young sorcerer hiding in one.

Arthur leans back, his eyes darting between Merlin’s. “I tried to—” his voice hitches. “He won’t negotiate.”

Merlin’s thumb brushes his jaw, his chin. His magic is tugging, stretching, reaching for Arthur. It always is, but now it’s so strong Merlin can barely keep his eyes from turning.

They’ve known this was coming since the beginning. Kings must marry, and Arthur has never wanted anything as much as he wants to be king of Camelot.

Arthur’s gaze flickers away from Merlin’s. He brings his hand up and traces the jut of bones in Merlin’s wrist. He presses his mouth to the place of Merlin’s pulse. _I am sorry,_ he is saying.

“Sire.” Merlin forces a weak grin, trying to remedy Arthur’s guilt. “I know.”

+

In the weeks leading up to the feast, they try to return to the way things were before.

Merlin keeps Arthur’s rooms. He dresses Arthur in the mornings and evenings and doesn’t let his touch linger. He starts and stokes the hearth’s fire without using his magic. He delivers scrolls to Arthur’s desk. He brings the prince his meals. He mucks out the horses’ stables. He polishes Arthur’s armor and mail and sword and remembers the callouses that form on his hands. He eavesdrops when others are in the room but doesn’t speak about it later with Arthur. He wishes the prince a good night and wakes him in the morning and doesn’t see him in the hours between.

The days stretch and trickle on, empty and waning. Arthur doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t even look at him, unless he needs to. It’s like Arthur thinks them planets, too fearful of what gravity might do if they draw too close together.

Merlin doesn’t blame him. He knows Arthur prefers to hurt quietly, to shove the thing that ails him away and away until it’s out of his mind entirely. But Merlin can’t help the sadness that floods his chest, haunting Arthur’s space like a ghost. She has not even arrived yet and it feels like Arthur has forgotten him.

“Are you alright?” Gwen asks one evening, her voice quiet even in the flitting chaos of the kitchens. She is preparing a tray for Merlin to take to Arthur, having been assigned with Cook in Morgana’s leave. “You’ve not seemed yourself, recently.”

Merlin tries at a smile. “Why do you say that?”

“You’ve just been quiet,” she shrugs. “And you have—” she pauses, placing a finger beneath her eye, “you have bruises, here, like you’ve not been sleeping.”

He’s not been.

He’s been kept up, staring out into the swallowing dark, thinking and thinking and thinking. He thinks mostly of Arthur. He keeps returning to his first summer in Camelot, to the cold spring he and Arthur used to frequent when it felt like the sun was roasting them alive. They would strip and let the bracing water clean them of their sweat, splashing around like wild boys until they’d tire and let the water calm around them. When it was still enough, it turned to rippling glass, a mirror of the sky above.

For a while they’d float among the clouds, lulled by the sounds of the forest. When Arthur grew bored he’d disappear into the water, long enough for Merlin’s pulse to jump to his throat, and then Merlin would feel a tug at his ankle and Arthur would drag him down, the murky water swirling around them, bubbles breaking from their skin like hundreds of little fish. Merlin would burst from the surface, shouting at him, and Arthur would laugh and laugh, the sun haloing his golden hair, his teeth shining like pearls. The sight of him would set Merlin’s chest alight with magic and something else, something living and tender and consuming.

He goes back at night, examining every moment. The green-blue of the spring, the small ripples of dragonflies skimming the water’s surface, the way the sun filtered through the trees and made everything glitter. Arthur. Arthur laughing, Arthur’s dripping hair, the beads of sweat rolling down his skin and, later, the beads of water, speckling his suntanned shoulders. Merlin tries to remember his thoughts, his movements, the way he was _before;_ before their last trip to the spring, before Arthur had sent ripples through everything and pressed his hungry mouth to Merlin’s, before they’d lost themselves so thoroughly in each other they’d nearly drowned.

Before Arthur touched him, Merlin had been perfectly happy aching for him quietly.

He’d learn to, again.

+

On the day of the twins’ arrival, Merlin fills Arthur’s bath and helps him dress after he’s finished. The muddled sounds of the castle’s preparations carry through the walls, but in Arthur’s rooms, the space between them is heavy with silence. 

Merlin smooths a wrinkle from Arthur’s tunic. Arthur stares at his shoulder, lost, his mind some other place entirely. Merlin reaches for him without thinking, taking a tuft of Arthur’s hair between his fingers.

“Perhaps we should cut this, sire,” Merlin mutters.

Arthur comes back to himself and ducks away from Merlin’s touch. “No,” he refuses, and does not say anything else.

Princess Iona of Laessater is, of course, beautiful. She enters the castle gracefully, her dress the color of a sun-warmed sky, her copper-red hair braided and adorned with freshly picked wildflowers. When she looks at Arthur for the first time, it is with eyes that resemble all the moss-covered stones that line Camelot’s shallow brooks. 

Arthur grins faintly at her, but it does not reach his eyes.

Her brother, Prince Owen, looks as much her twin as Merlin expected. He is not as soft at the edges as she is—his squared jaw is strong and his shoulders are broad and tall—but his hair is the same, as are his eyes, and when he grins and places a friendly hand on Arthur’s shoulder, his cheeks dimple like hers do.

“My friend,” the prince greets him. “It’s been too long.”

Arthur nods, keeping his smile courtly. “We were boys, last we saw each other.” He glances at Princess Iona and adds, “We were all children.”

Merlin’s eyes drift to Arthur. He hadn’t mentioned there was a history.

When the twins leave to their rooms to settle in and prepare for supper with the king, Arthur turns to Merlin, finally, his face carefully blank. Around them, servants bustle about the hallway like ants, carrying trunks of fine silverware and stacks of gold-varnished plates and large, blossoming bouquets; all for Gwanwyn in the morrow. By morning, the castle will have erupted in wild color.

“You’re dismissed of your duties,” says Arthur. 

Merlin blinks. “For the evening?”

“Indefinitely.” Arthur looks at the stone floor. “George will take over for you.”

It sparks something in Merlin. For the first time in weeks, he feels like a living thing.

“You can’t be serious,” he scoffs.

“Well, you complain enough—”

“I’ve not complained _once_ since—”

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur warns, his eyes stormy, and Merlin remembers where they are, all the eyes around them. He will not shout at Arthur in front of so many people and Arthur knows that.

“ _Sire_ ,” Merlin says, quiet but biting. His magic is churning, simmering, but there is something else beneath the anger: panic, sharp-toothed, nipping at his insides. He cannot protect Arthur unless he is near him. Arthur knows this. Arthur _knows_ this. “You can’t just,” he urges, “just—”

“Merlin,” Arthur sighs, his voice worn thin. He sounds so tired. Even with all his frustration, Merlin still wants to reach for Arthur, to press soft thumbs to the bruises beneath his eyes and rid the tiredness from him. He never looks good like this—exhausted, fretful, the blue in his eyes gone dull.

Merlin opens his mouth.

Arthur shakes his head. “Not now,” he mutters. Quieter, he adds, “Please.”

+

So, Merlin waits.

He paces about Gaius’ workroom until the old man shouts at him to be still. He tries to busy himself with crushing herbs for salves, the smell strong and medicinal but not at all distracting.

The light filtering through the windows turns heavy, waning, until it isn’t there at all. Merlin lights the candles with a murmur.

Later, Merlin drags himself to the kitchens to get his and Gaius’ dinner: stewed mutton and dry bread. He’s carrying it back to the physician’s rooms when he spots Arthur, drifting through the corridor with Princess Iona. His hands are folded behind his back and he’s nodding as she speaks animatedly, her eyes bright with joy. Usually, the king entertains guests in the dining hall well after they’ve eaten. Perhaps Arthur asked if he and the princess could retire early.

Jealousy, sudden and scalding, rises to the back of his throat. He tries to swallow it down, but it’s solid as a stone. Painful as one, too.

“Hey,” comes a voice from behind him. Merlin turns. Prince Owen watches him, tilting his head like a dog. “You were there, earlier, with the prince. You’re his manservant, yeah?”

Merlin nods and forces a thin smile.

The prince glances at the food Merlin’s carrying. “Didn’t see you at supper.”

“His highness gave me the night off,” Merlin lies. “He’s very…” he tries to settle on a word, his grin twitching, “generous.”

The prince laughs as if he’s in on the joke. Merlin doesn’t like it.

Back in the physician’s quarters, Merlin eats slowly. He marks time by the wick of the candle. He’d stopped time, once, without meaning to. He wonders if he could speed it up if he really tried.

After he’s waited to the point of pacing again, he grabs one of the jars of salve he filled earlier. “Arthur’s shoulder’s been bothering him again,” he explains away, letting the door swing shut behind him before Gaius has time to reply.

+

The castle’s quieted since nightfall. The hallways stretch before him, empty, masked in shadow.

The guards at Arthur’s door straighten when they see Merlin approaching. 

“Remedy for the prince,” Merlin tells them and holds up the small jar.

They share a look. The taller one clears his throat. “Can’t let you in. Prince’s orders.”

“Well, I’m not just anyone.”

The shorter one speaks now. “The orders were for you specifically, Merlin.”

Merlin’s eyes narrow. Fucking prat. He glances around them, checking the dark corridor. With a whispered spell, their eyes turn distant, glass over. He shoves through them easily and slips into the warmth of Arthur’s rooms.

Arthur stands by the lit hearth, turned toward the noise. The light from the fire flickers softly across his face.

“How’d you get in here?” he asks. “I told the guards not to let you through.”

Merlin looks at him pointedly. He lets his eyes flash gold.

Arthur’s eyes darken. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Merlin rolls his jaw, Arthur’s anger feeding Merlin’s own. “Well, I wouldn’t have had to use it if you hadn’t _sacked me_ ,” he hisses. “How was George at dinner, by the way? Insufferable as always?”

Arthur sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He still hasn’t moved from the hearth.

“He was perfectly fine, Merlin,” he sighs.

“And I’ve not been?”

“No, you haven’t,” Arthur snaps. “You’ve been—it’s been awful, these last two weeks.”

“Oh, right. It’s _so_ awful that I’m trying to make this as easy for you as possible.” Merlin rolls his eyes. “It’s _so_ awful that I’m finally acting the way you always say a servant should.”

“ _Yes_ , it is,” Arthur hisses, storming closer, “because that’s not what I _want!_ ”

For a moment, they only stare at each other, caught in a living silence. The anger melts from Arthur’s face, something akin to misery in its wake, and Merlin feels his own stomach twist as emotion rises to the back of his throat. They’re only an arm’s length from each other, now. Merlin has to stop himself from reaching out.

“It’s not what I want either.” Merlin swallows thickly. “But we cannot—you must—” Merlin’s voice hitches. “We talked about this, Arthur. How it was going to be. What would happen when—when it finally came time for you to marry.”

Many nights they’d discussed it. Some were calmer than others. Some nights they got into it, Arthur pacing about his rooms, in and out of doorways as they fought and fought and fought. _Many kings keep consorts even after they’ve married, Merlin. Why am I exempt? Why can’t I be like any other king?_

 _You know why,_ Merlin had said. The enormity of their destiny settled in the space between them. That had quieted Arthur for a long, long time.

Merlin watches Arthur, remembering that night. “You can’t jeopardize your place on the throne, or your standing in the people’s hearts. What you’re meant to do for Albion—what _we’re_ going to do—it’s much bigger than this. Than us.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Arthur agonizes. “I know. I know my duty; I’ve known it my whole life.” He stops and quiets for a moment. He spins one of his rings around his finger.

“But this,” Arthur gestures between them, “this feels big also, doesn’t it?”

Merlin says, “Yes,” before he can stop himself. Sometimes this thing between them feels too big for Merlin’s body to contain; all his magic, all Albion’s magic, swelling like the ocean’s tide when Arthur’s near. Sometimes what he feels for Arthur is so big he feels like he’s drowning in it.

“But we can’t.” It’s Arthur lamenting, now. Trying to convince himself of his own words, his own promise. “Not when you’re risking your life every day by merely existing. Not when your freedom relies on my kingship, too. I’ve just got to—to do what’s always been planned for me. I’ve just got to get there, so I can change Camelot in all the ways I’m meant to.”

Merlin nods, his chest aching. Arthur’s so close. Merlin wants more than anything to reach for him, to cup his hand at Arthur’s nape, to bury his fingers in Arthur’s grown-out hair. This must be the force of gravity Arthur was so fearful of; a moon to a planet. A planet to a star.

Arthur turns away and walks back to the hearth.

“George is only temporary,” he begins again, calmer. “You’ll come back to your duties after—After. I’m trying to make this easier for you too, you know. You think I can’t tell how all this is affecting you? That I don’t pay attention to you?” Arthur stares at him. “I can hardly pay attention to anything else, not when you’re just… bleeding out, leaving trails all over the castle.”

“And you haven’t been?” Merlin asks. He thinks of these past weeks, of Arthur’s glassy eyes, of his permanent scowl. “This is the first time you’ve said so much as ten words to me in _weeks,_ Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t apologize, but the guilt is clear across his face. When he says nothing, Merlin changes course. “Nothing will be easier for me if you’re dead. Camelot will never have its Golden Age. I’m meant to protect you, to get you there. You can’t just fire me to keep me away, that’s not—”

“It’s only Gwanwyn, Merlin. Nothing will happen to me.”

“Oh, right, ‘cause no one’s ever tried to harm you at a feast before.”

“You’re still a servant of the castle. You’ll be there anyway.”

Merlin steps closer to him. Warmth radiates from the fire. “But I will not be here with you in your rooms, or when you are preparing, or afterwards, when you—”

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur groans. “You’re set on being difficult, aren’t you?”

Merlin opens his mouth, a quipped ‘Always,’ forming on his tongue, but Arthur cuts him off.

“Can you not see that I’m—I’m _trying_. She’s here, and I must—” Arthur shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, they are like shattered glass, glistening shiny and blue. “With you so near, it’s impossible. You must know that.”

Merlin chews on the inside of his cheek. He stares at a spot on the floor. He doesn’t want to argue any longer with Arthur, each word its own little heartbreak, but he’s not settled, of course he isn’t, not if there’s a chance of Arthur being harmed without him near.

Arthur sighs. “You’re always going on about protective charms. Place one on me.”

Merlin looks up at him. “What?”

“If you’re so worried—then—then—”

“You’ll really let me?” Merlin asks, wide-eyed. When Arthur found out about Merlin’s magic, he made Merlin promise he’d never use it on him without his permission. Every time Merlin’s asked to place extra protection on him, Arthur’s refused. There was a sliver of his father in him, still, that feared what magic might do to him, what it might turn him into.

Gone is that fear, now. “Yes,” Arthur says. “Yes, Merlin. Do it.”

The moment swells, filling the room, filling Merlin’s chest. “I won’t put it on you, just something you’re wearing, something you can keep with you,” Merlin begins, softly, still adjusting to the full weight of Arthur’s trust. He looks at Arthur’s hands.

“Your rings,” he says. “Give me one of your rings.”

+

When Arthur dismisses Merlin again, he listens.

He stands before the guards and brings them back to awareness. They watch him, confused, as he turns from them without a word and makes his way back to the physician’s rooms. His footsteps echo through the empty halls, his feet like lead, his heart heavy as stone.

He spots the figure first, only a shape, only a shadow.

“Leaving the prince’s chambers,” Prince Owen squints, blocking Merlin’s way. There is something about him that makes Merlin’s stomach twist. It’s his eyes, dark and pooling. It’s the way his teeth shine, predatory, even in the dark. “Bit late for that, innit?”

Merlin keeps his mouth shut, his magic gathering warily within him. He is quicker to distrust visiting nobles rather than believe in them. It is the village boy still in him, he thinks.

Merlin’s not in the mood to speak to the prince, anyway. If he opens his mouth now, he will either spit venom or begin to cry, so he doesn’t speak at all; instead, he ignores the prince and nudges past him, indifferent to rules of propriety.

Merlin’s only made it a few steps away when a hand tugs him by his shoulder and shoves him into the wall, the stone digging uncomfortably into his head and back.

Merlin yelps, “What—”

Prince Owen buries his thumb into the tender skin below Merlin’s collarbone. Merlin gasps, all words smothered by the sharp pain. The prince just stands there, crowded close and holding Merlin against the wall, not a word said between them. He stares at Merlin’s face, pressing closer, and there’s no light reflecting off of his dark eyes, but his teeth still shine, his breath steaming against Merlin’s face. Slowly, as if it’s Merlin’s pain and labored breathing that fuels it, he smiles. Dimples appear in his cheeks like black holes, like garden wells, so deep and dark you cannot even imagine what evils they contain. 

Footsteps near them, loud in the choking and staggering silence. “Merlin?”

The prince steps away, unbothered. He’s still smiling. 

Merlin turns and finds the source of his name.

“Leon,” he gasps. 

Leon’s eyes dart between Merlin and the prince. He settles on Merlin. “You alright?”

“We’re quite alright, Sir Knight,” the prince says, chipper. “Better than alright, I’d say.” Merlin’s stomach twists at the prince’s implication. He knows what it must’ve looked like, how close they’d been, pressed against the wall.

Leon doesn’t even acknowledge the prince. His gaze stays on Merlin, watching. Waiting.

“Fine,” Merlin lies. He’s dealt with visiting nobles and their cruel tendencies toward servants before. It was better not to stir the pot, especially when so much was riding on the Princess and Arthur’s union. “I’m fine,” he repeats, his voice stronger.

Leon doesn’t look convinced. His eyes rake over Merlin, filled with care and concern. Merlin nearly sobs right then, the weight of everything—Arthur, the marriage, Prince Owen—quickly and relentlessly catching up to him. It wasn’t uncommon for one of Arthur’s subjects to show him concern, not these days, but it still surprised him every time—this, too, was the village boy still in him. He’d thought himself entirely invisible, worthless in the eyes of royals and nobles, until he came to Camelot. 

Leon turns to Prince Owen. “The king sent me, sire. He asked that I speak with you about meal preferences for tomorrow.”

Prince Owen frowns. “Uther thinks this a job for a knight? At this hour?”

“The king is very concerned with making sure Camelot’s visitors feel well taken care of,” Leon says unflinchingly. “And I am at his disposal—I will do anything he asks of me, no matter how measly the task.” He pauses, glancing at Merlin, then says, “Here, sire, I’ll walk with you back to your rooms. It’s quite late.”

Of course Merlin knows what Leon’s doing. His chest fills, fear giving way to gratitude.

As the prince and Leon walk away from him, he spares one last look at Leon’s retreating shape. Leon glances back at him, quick, and Merlin hopes his thanks is obvious on his face. Silent and loud at once.

+

Merlin stumbles out of his room the next day at half-noon. Gaius greets him with a pointed look and a raised brow.

“You don’t seem in a rush to tend to the prince.”

Merlin settles on one of the stools, a vial of something pale purple before him. He stares at it, concentrating, and it begins to bubble. A trick his mother used to delight at when he was a boy.

Sometimes he misses her so much it hurts.

“He sacked me.”

“Arthur?” Gaius asks, disbelieving. 

Merlin nods. “Says it’s only temporary, but…” he doesn’t finish, shrugging. He looks up at Gaius. “He let me place a charm on him. For protection.”

Gaius’ face shines with true shock. “ _Arthur?”_ he repeats.

Merlin’s mouth ticks into an almost-smile. 

Gaius sighs and shakes his head. He busies himself once more and returns to making potions for the inevitable influx of post-feast illnesses. “You know I’d usually reprimand you for using any unnecessary magic, but—”

“’S not unnecessary,” Merlin interrupts him, perhaps a bit too forcefully. “Something could happen to him.”

Gaius looks up at him. When he speaks, his voice is prodding but soft, careful. “Prince Arthur is quite capable of defending himself. He’s had more training than you, my boy.”

“Not against magic,” Merlin argues. “He’s helpless against magic.”

“You think Arthur needs magical protection against King Eifion’s heirs?”

“No,” Merlin shakes his head. At the mention of Prince Owen, Merlin’s stomach sinks. Memories float back from the night before. “No, not really, but—” he bites the inside of his cheek. “But it’s always good to be safe, y’know?”

There is understanding in Gaius’ eyes, then. Soft, with a hint of concern, like Merlin imagines a father’s gaze might look. He often wonders how much Gaius knows, if he suspects anything. Sometimes, Merlin feels so much for Arthur he thinks his affection must be as obvious as the moon. 

Gaius walks closer to him. Smooths Merlin’s disheveled, sleep-ridden hair. The touch reminds him of his mother, the way, as a child, she’d gather his small body close and soothe him during Ealdor’s worst storms. _It’s alright,_ she’d whisper into his ear. _It’s alright._

He imagines Gaius’ touch must mean the same thing. _It’s alright._

“I guess you know about the plans of betrothal, then,” Merlin says lowly, nearly a whisper.

“I’m not immune to castle gossip, my boy,” Gaius replies. “And I’ve known King Uther longer than anyone. Longer, even, than Arthur. It’s not unlike him to demand something like this from his son.”

Merlin stares at a spot on the table and bites at the inside of his cheek. The sadness that fills him does not feel as sharp, not as raw. Now, he only aches like he’s nursing a marrow-deep bruise. 

“I assume your day is free, then?” Gaius asks, his hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

Merlin nods. “I’m yours until the feast.”

“Great,” says Gaius. “I need a few things from the gardens.”

+

Spring is Arthur’s favorite season. Merlin remembers this as he’s walking back from the gardens, carrying a basket of herbs for Gaius. The air is warm and leaves are budding from the trees, everything flushed green. Beneath the soles of his feet, the land’s magic is yawning, blossoming.

Merlin’s almost back inside the castle when he sees him. Arthur, walking out along the treeline, Princess Iona beside him. They are deep in conversation—Arthur’s mouth is moving and the princess is nodding intently along with him.

Arthur’s eyes flicker upward and spot him. He keeps talking, holding Merlin’s gaze. It’s Merlin, finally, who breaks the moment, turning and heading back to the physician’s chambers.

As he’s walking, Merlin thinks of the cold spring. Arthur’s calloused hand wrapping ‘round his ankle.

He will feel Arthur tugging at him, always.

+

There is something about feasts Merlin’s always loved. Not the part that includes serving nobles, but the rest of it—the noise, everyone’s delight, how it fills up every space until it’s like the great hall is singing with joy. If Merlin didn’t know any better, if he’d been born without it, he’d have thought it felt like magic.

There are times throughout the night where Gwanwyn feels almost like a normal feast. Where a group will erupt in laughter and the walls will echo with it; where he’ll huddle with Gwen in the corner and speak to her in hushed and secretive tones; where Merlin will grin, soft, when he catches Gwen and Lancelot tiptoeing around each other, their own smiles faint and sweet. But then a noble will demand Merlin pours him more wine and he will find Arthur across the room, and he’ll watch George do for Arthur what the knight is asking of Merlin, and he’ll remember that this feast is not like any other. That, after tonight, a queen by Arthur’s side, no feast might ever feel the same again.

Gwen tells him, “Can’t say I’ll be broken up when they leave.” She’s eyeing the twins as they speak with Arthur and the king. “’Specially him,” she adds, narrowing on Prince Owen.

Merlin doesn’t say anything of the planned betrothal. Gwen will know soon enough. He watches Prince Owen, dimpled smile aimed at Arthur, who, even as he tries, cannot hide his boredom from showing on his face.

“He’s…” Merlin trails off, his eyes on Prince Owen.

“A prick,” Gwen finishes.

Merlin side-eyes her and grins. “Aren’t they all?”

“Careful,” she jests. “Lots of ears.”

“You said it, not me.”

Her smile fades. There’s a moment of quiet between them, filled by the noise of the great hall.

“Not all of them are pricks, really,” she says, thoughtful. “Not Arthur.”

“No,” Merlin agrees softly. Then, turning to Gwen, he grins and shrugs, “Well, sometimes.”

She hides her laughter behind her hand.

The night stretches on. Wine is poured. Food is eaten. When Merlin grows tired of serving strangers, he ducks out of the great hall and makes for the kitchens, chatting up some of the maids until he’s convinced them to slip him a buttered roll. He picks at it on his way back to the feast, lolling about the castle in a way that would drive Arthur mad.

As if its Merlin who conjures him, his eyes catch on a familiar flame of blond hair. Princess Iona follows him, her head bowed. Wordlessly, Arthur opens a door to one of the spare rooms and she ducks into it, and there is a second, like a wick catching flame, where Arthur’s eyes find him across the hallway. Like he’d known, somehow, Merlin was there and watching him. Arthur nods at him, a simple slow tilt of his head, before following the Princess into the room and shutting the door.

Merlin feels it in his gut. He feels it in his chest, a twisting, a pain so sudden and scalding that it rivals any other hurt he’s ever felt. This is it, this is it, there’s no going back. He swallows it down, down, down, blinking away the tears that well and pool in his eyes.

 _She will make a beautiful queen,_ Merlin thinks, a reminder to himself. A reassurance. _Camelot will love him for it._

+

He sees no point in hasting back to the great hall. He stands there, he does not know how long, staring at the space where Arthur had been before he’d stepped through the doorway, before he’d walked into the rest of his life, before he’d closed the door on everything behind him.

Merlin wanders the castle, ignoring the way his eyes begin to swim if he lets his mind drift for more than a few moments. He doesn’t roam far because he can’t roam far from Arthur. Of everything, this might be the worst thing, the thing he can’t let go of. Even if Uther found out about his magic and Arthur begged him to leave, even if Merlin wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to Camelot. To leave Arthur’s side. Not ever, not even if Arthur asked. Not even if Arthur made him promise.

Tied for life, they are. Moon to planet, planet to star. Two sides of the same coin. It’s a cruel joke destiny’s playing on him. How could Merlin _not_ love Arthur with their fates so entwined? When the magic he was born with reaches out for Arthur every chance it gets?

But it’s not only that, Merlin knows. His feelings are rooted deeper than destiny, than fate.

Merlin turns a corner. Stops. Through the tears in his eyes, the figure’s impossible to make out, but, somehow, Merlin knows who it is before he even hears his voice. His stomach sinks.

“I wondered where you’d gone off too,” Prince Owen says with a too-wide smile. “Not very servantly of you, leaving a royal feast like that.”

Merlin tries to bite his tongue. He truly does.

“I don’t exist purely to serve nobles,” he says lowly, his voice wavering.

At this, the prince squints, disbelieving. “You don’t?” He steps forward, then nods, smiling as if he understands. “Ah, right, not ‘ _nobles.’_ Just one noble, then.”

Merlin swallows. Grinds his teeth. 

The prince steps closer.

“Late last night, what you were doing for Arthur,” the prince says, his tone sultry, “what if I asked you to do the same for me?”

It only takes an instant for Merlin’s stomach to plummet. His magic does the opposite; it washes through him, sparking at the sign of danger. “I don’t,” he sputters, “you’re mistaken—”

“Oh, come on.” Prince Owen wraps a hand ‘round his wrist, his thumb bruising the place of Merlin’s pulse. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. What was it you called him yesterday? ‘Generous?’”

Merlin tries to yank his hand back, his magic nearly sparking at his fingertips, but the prince only holds him tighter. It feels like his bones are grinding together. Merlin has to fight back any sort of noise, his face screwing up in pain. 

“No?” The prince’s voice is oddly calm compared to how strong his grip is on Merlin’s wrist. He steps even closer, his eyes going darker. Teeth shining even in the dull light. “Well, what if I wasn’t asking?”

At the threat, something thunderous moves through Merlin; a storm churning its way over Camelot. He stops struggling and instead goes completely still, his jaw hardening, his fists curling into bruising fists. Prince Owen’s smirk grows wider, thinking he’s won, but Merlin’s only a second away from muttering words that would have the prince fighting for his next breath.

The prince’s eyes flicker past Merlin, just for an instant, but it’s enough for his smile to falter. He lets go of Merlin’s wrist and Merlin backs right into a solid body.

“Brother,” Prince Owen smiles, so cheerful it’s obviously insincere. So cheerful it makes Merlin’s stomach twist. “Well,” he continues, “we’re not quite brothers yet, are we? Soon, though, I hope.”

“Wouldn’t count on it,” Arthur says evenly. It’s an act, Merlin knows—an indifference Arthur’s perfected through interacting with nobles he has a particular distaste for. Still, Merlin frowns and looks to Arthur for clarification, ignoring the way that even looking at him brings a small heartbreak. Surely the proposal went well. Surely, she said yes.

Prince Owen hesitates, tilting his head thoughtfully. “You’d be breaking her heart, refusing her. She’s mooned over you since we were children. God, the things I’ve had to hear.”

“It’s not up to me,” Arthur says. “Once my father finds out King Eifion’s planning to open up Laessater to magic again, I’m sure he’ll agree that getting into bed with a pro-magic kingdom would be treasonous to Camelot’s values.”

Prince Owen considers Arthur’s response. He laughs once. “You really are your father’s son, Pendragon,” he says, shaking his head. “Magic bans are barbaric, anyway. Give it ten years, see how well Camelot fares with an entire people against her.”

At this, Arthur’s carefully crafted exterior splinters. It’s a small movement, miniscule—a twitch of his mouth, a strike of rage in his eyes, clouded over almost as soon as it breaks through. Prince Owen sees none of it. Merlin only notices because he knows Arthur better than anyone else. 

“Well, even if there’s no wedding in the future,” Prince Owen’s eyes move to Merlin, predatory, “it’s still Gwanwyn. Plenty of reason to celebrate.”

“Plenty of reason to go back to the feast with everyone else, I think,” Arthur says and steps forward, casual, but Merlin sees the move for what it is. So does the prince.

“Ah,” he says with a dark and knowing smile. He leans forward, as if to share a secret with Arthur. “So, this one’s off limits, then?”

Merlin blanches, “ _This one?”_ at the same time Arthur steps even closer with a bitten off, “ _Yes.”_ Arthur’s anger practically crackles in the air. “Everyone in fucking Camelot is off limits to you.”

Prince Owen lifts his hands and backs away with a dimpled laugh. “Alright, alright. Back to the feast I go. Prince Arthur, you’ve been…” he considers it, already most of the way down the hallway. “Well, not as generous as your manservant made you out to be, I’d say.”

When he’s disappeared at the turn of the hallway, Merlin turns to Arthur, frantic, buzzing out of his skin. His words spill out of him, “Arthur, were you serious about the betrothal? What happened? How did you—”

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks, looking Merlin over.

Merlin falters. “Yeah, yes, sire, I’m fine, but—”

“Has he done that before? Cornered you?”

Merlin blinks. Swallows. “No.”

Arthur flexes his jaw. He glances away, off towards the dark of the hall.

“Go get my rooms ready for when I get back from the feast.”

“What? No.”

Arthur frowns at him. “No?”

“You sacked me.”

“Well, I’m un-sacking you. I’m desacking you.”

“That’s—” Merlin scoffs. “That doesn’t even make sense! You’re such a _prat_. Can’t you just tell me what happened? Did she deny you? Or is what you said true? Is Laessater really lifting its magic ban—”

With a quick glance ahead and behind them, Arthur tugs Merlin forward and kisses him. Merlin’s breath hitches, melting into it easily, familiar as coming home. His hands find Arthur’s hair, his nape, tugging him closer. Arthur pulls back, mumbling, “Do you ever shut up, Merlin?” Merlin only makes a noise and pulls him into another kiss. 

When Arthur leans away again, he puts some real distance between them. “Go get my rooms ready,” he says simply.

“Is it true?” Merlin asks, softer. The ache’s come back, having kissed Arthur again, uncurling and stretching in his chest; a dormant thing waking up. He thought he’d never get to do it again. He still might never. “Just tell me. I’ll go without a fuss.”

“ _Yes,_ Merlin,” Arthur gripes. “And if you’d just _go_ up to my rooms, I could head back to the feast and tell my father the news before we waste the entire fucking night—”

Merlin interrupts him with a bruising kiss, a relief he hadn’t known he was wishing for flooding through him. He could start crying again—he nearly does—but he settles for kissing Arthur, instead.

+

He doesn’t go to Arthur’s rooms. Not at first, at least.

Instead, he follows the path to the great hall, shadowing Arthur. He stops at the hall’s edge, at one of the great arches, and lets the crowd shift around him. He watches Arthur make his way to the king’s throne, nodding and smiling as wine-drunk nobles try and interact with him along the way. Nothing about him gives it away; he’s courtly, natural. All soft grins and powerful, attentive eyes.

Merlin doesn’t hear her approach, nor feel her proximity.

“Sorry I’ve kept him away,” she says, her voice sweet as song.

Merlin turns, surprised, and only realizes what she’s said a second after he’s already staring at her. “Oh, I, um…”

“It’s alright, Merlin,” Princess Iona smiles. “He told me. I told him things, too. I’ll admit it was nice having someone to talk to, to share things with, but—” she shrugs. “I think the both of us went into it knowing it wasn’t going to happen. We were both just looking for a way out. He’s quite a good strategist,” she laughs. “I’m sure you knew that, though.”

“Yes,” Merlin manages through his shock. “Yeah, he’s—I didn’t think anyone could make the emendation of village boundaries sound so interesting.”

She laughs. “He certainly has a talent for all this royal stuff.”

Her eyes move toward the crowd. Merlin does the same, finding Arthur as he comes to stand beside Uther, leaning in toward his ear.

“He will make a great king,” she says, thoughtful. “Anyone with eyes can see it. Not because he’s a good liar—which he isn’t—or a good strategist—which he is—but because Camelot loves him just as much as he loves her.”

Merlin feels the weight of her words in his chest.

Arthur’s held Camelot in his palms since the moment he was born, wrapped around every one of his little fingers. Merlin thinks of Camelot’s rolling hills and dipped valleys and rivers that branched land like veins, the way Arthur’s gaze found them through his chamber window, the way Merlin could feel her magic basking beneath his attention. Merlin thinks of her people, thinks of every person who ever graced Arthur with an adoring smile, every child who peered wondrously at him from behind their mother’s legs. Merlin hardly has to look to find evidence of Camelot’s love for Arthur; it’s in everyone, everything.

She turns back to look at Merlin. Now, her voice is quieter. “They’re wary of him already, you know. Albion’s other kings. They’re not scared of Uther, but of his son. Funny, isn’t it? How sometimes it’s so easy to recognize who someone will grow into.”

“And I’d say he’ll make a great husband, too, but—” she pauses. When she speaks again, she leans closer, a secret shared only between them. “His heart’s already split between Camelot and his servant. Don’t know if there’s much room for anyone else.”

Even as her words set something in his chest alight, soaring, he can’t help the tinge of guilt he feels. He’s wondered, sometimes, if he’s holding Arthur back. Keeping him from something he might otherwise want, otherwise wish for.

As if she senses his guilt, she tilts close and places a soft hand on his arm. “That’s not why it didn’t work out with us,” she assures him “We were both looking for a way out. Camelot’s great and all, but I’d much rather be queen of my home kingdom.”

Understanding dawns in him, slow and steadfast. He frowns, “But your brother—”

Her smile slips from her face. “My brother thinks Laessater his birthright. Always has. But he’s much closer to losing the crown than he suspects.” She pauses. “As I said, sometimes it’s easy to tell who someone will become.”

Merlin nods and says nothing of last night or of this evening, though, privately, it makes him feel good, knowing he’s likely not going to be a king Arthur will need to mediate with.

Merlin turns and finds Arthur again, leaning away from a red-faced Uther. The king says something clipped to him, his mouth thinned, before turning back to entertain Gwanwyn’s guests. Arthur steps away and disappears into the crowd.

Merlin turns to Princess Iona, his mouth opening around an excuse, but she’s already a step ahead of him, her green eyes bright and knowing.

“It was nice to finally meet you, Merlin,” she says, her cheeks dimpled. “I hope we’ve time to speak again sometime in the future.”

He nods, grinning. “I hope the same,” he says, and finds that he truly means it.

+

Merlin waits for him.

He paces around Arthur’s rooms until his heels ache. He whispers a fire into existence and nearly singes the furs that surround the hearth. He sits at the table and picks nervously at the skin around his thumb. He chooses nightclothes for Arthur and sets them out on the bed, smoothing the fabric and the blankets with his hands. He noses around Arthur’s things, his clothes, his armor and circlets and novelties. He picks up one of Arthur’s rings, the band so dark it’s almost black, and slides it onto his thumb, studying it. He tidies everything and sits at the table again. He paces until his feet hurt once more.

When the door finally opens and Arthur slips through, Merlin’s by the hearth, stoking the fire. He stands too quickly and stumbles in his haste, nearly toppling over. If Arthur notices, he doesn’t say anything, already tugging off his clothes and reaching for the ones Merlin picked for him.

Merlin rushes forward, ready to help him. Arthur doesn’t let him, swatting his hands away. “I can dress myself,” he says.

“I’ll remember that next time you whine when I don’t help you,” Merlin tries at a joke, ducking down and picking up Arthur’s discarded clothing. He tosses them out of the way and hopes Arthur doesn’t notice, too distracted to call for someone to wash them.

Merlin watches him. Arthur keeps his gaze on the floor, tugging on the trousers Merlin set out but leaving the tunic untouched on the bed.

“Suppose Uther didn’t take it well, then,” Merlin murmurs.

Arthur laughs once, humorless. “’Course not.”

Merlin walks until he’s standing beside Arthur, looking anywhere but at him, lost in thought.

“What about the rationing law?” Merlin asks.

“He’s still going to enact it.”

“He said that?”

“No,” Arthur snaps, defiant, “but he will. I won’t let him—I’ll make sure he passes it. It’s not my fault he hates magic. It’s not my fault he refuses to cohort with any kingdom that doesn’t have a magic ban.”

Merlin reaches for him, a gentle hand at his shoulder. Love swells inside him like a bruise, rises all the way to his throat. “Arthur—”

“The alleviation of our people’s suffering shouldn’t depend on a fucking ultimatum. I can’t believe—” he stops short, his jaw pulling taught. “I used to think he was the greatest king in all of Albion. In all of _history_. I used to want to be like him! Can you believe that? I saw nothing wrong with what he was doing—what he was doing to Camelot’s people—to people—Merlin, to people just like _you_ ,” Arthur turns to him, finally, wide-eyed, dismay edging its way into his voice. “Oh, God, it could’ve been you, Merlin. It could’ve easily been you.”

“Arthur—”

“I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t know why you don’t—why you don’t just leave and go somewhere where you aren’t—where you can practice magic freely without worrying you’ll lose your life over it.”

“You know why I’m here, Arthur,” Merlin insists, reaching out for him, making sure he _listens_. He holds either side of Arthur’s face in his hands, pressing the pads of his thumbs to Arthur’s jaw. Months and months back, he told Arthur he’d once come close to leaving Camelot with a girl he might’ve loved. Told him that something had happened, that it hadn’t worked out, but even if it had—even if he’d made it all the way to the edge of Camelot’s border, even if Merlin loved her, he wouldn’t have been able to leave with her. _‘Cause of destiny,_ Arthur whispered, laying in the bed beside him, his face obscured in the dark. _No,_ Merlin told him. _‘Cause of you. ‘Cause I loved you more._

Arthur’s eyes dart between his, searching, before he leans forward and closes the short distance between them with a long, bruising kiss. Merlin’s chest aches with it. “You’re an idiot,” Arthur sighs against his mouth, then kisses him, again and again. Like he can’t help it. “Merlin, if you had any sense whatsoever,” another kiss, “you would’ve left a long time ago.”

“Sentiment goes both ways,” Merlin mumbles as Arthur kisses his chin, his jaw, his cheek. “You can banish me any time you wish.”

“As if you’d listen to me,” Arthur scoffs, back at Merlin’s mouth, finding Merlin’s hand on the side of his neck and covering it with his own. Arthur stills, then, a slight movement, and pulls Merlin’s palm away. Looks down at it. Merlin notices it only after Arthur’s tracing the line of his thumb, stopping at the familiar band of dark, swirling metal.

“Is this my ring?” Arthur asks, transfixed.

Merlin flushes and tries to pull away, reaching to tug it off. “Yeah, sorry, I just—”

Arthur lolls forward and finds Merlin’s lips again, one hand still wrapped around Merlin’s wrist, the other curling at his nape. Merlin meets him easily, his mouth opening beneath Arthur’s, so insistent and steadfast it almost feels frantic. Arthur’s right there with him, though, sliding his hand against Merlin’s jaw, dragging his thumb along the jut of Merlin’s flushed cheekbone, pressed so close it’s like Arthur wants to crawl inside of him. He lets go of Merlin’s wrist and reaches for Merlin’s shoulder, pushing him down until he’s sitting on the edge of Arthur’s bed, then moving to stand between Merlin’s knees. “I’ve missed you so much,” Merlin breathes out, his face tilted up toward Arthur’s, and Arthur makes a soft sound that gets swallowed into another kiss. He makes quick work of Merlin’s neckerchief, untying and tugging it from his neck.

Arthur drags his mouth down, pressing his lips to Merlin’s jaw, before focusing more intently on his neck. “Couldn’t go through with it,” Arthur says against his skin. “Just kept thinking of you, and—” Arthur pauses, tugging Merlin’s shirt collar down and pressing his mouth to Merlin’s collarbone. “I just couldn’t go through with it.”

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, pulling Arthur up so they face each other again.

Arthur stares at him, his blue eyes swimming. Something in Merlin’s chest blooms, swells.

Slowly, never taking his eyes away from Merlin’s, Arthur sinks to his knees.

Merlin makes a sound he might otherwise be embarrassed about if he wasn’t so caught up in the moment. Carefully, Arthur gathers Merlin’s hand in his own, and, still staring up at him, places a single, deliberate kiss to the ring around Merlin’s thumb.

“Oh, God,” Merlin gasps, flushing hot.

Then, like a dam breaking, Arthur’s frantic again, kissing sloppily up Merlin’s wrist before changing course and dragging his hands up the fabric on Merlin’s thighs. Arthur leans forward, his trembling fingers grabbing for the laces of Merlin’s trousers.

Merlin buries his hands in Arthur’s hair, long enough now that it takes effort to keep it looking princely and neat. Merlin’s throat goes dry.

“I like this,” Merlin breathes, playing with Arthur’s hair. “I like this so much.”

Arthur pauses what he’s doing. When he looks up at Merlin again, his answering grin is slow, syrupy.

“I know,” he says. “Why do you think I refuse to cut it?”

+

Through the night, a storm rolls in and settles over Camelot. Merlin wakes slowly to the soft thrum of rain and the low rumble of thunder in the distance. The space beside him is empty, cooled, but Merlin knows where he’ll find Arthur before he even looks for him.

Merlin slips out of bed. The floor is cold against his feet. He tugs a blanket around him and moves to the other side of the room, where Arthur stands, his own blanket pulled around his bare shoulders, watching the churning storm through the open window. It’s early, early morning, the light gray and soft. Merlin settles into the easy quiet beside Arthur.

“Used to be scared of storms,” Merlin says eventually, soft. “’Course, we lived in a tiny cottage, so I was convinced the wind would blow through and suck my mother and me into the clouds.”

“That’s ridiculous, Merlin.” Arthur’s eyes don’t move from the window. 

“Hey. I was a child. I don’t believe it anymore.”

Arthur blinks, blank-faced, though his mouth ticks up in amusement. His skin is still winter-pale, made paler by the clouded light. “I’ve always liked storms,” he says simply. _I know,_ Merlin thinks.

There’s another few moments of quiet between them. Merlin turns from Arthur and watches the storm, the puddles forming in the fields below, the land drinking in the first full rain since winter ended. Everything’s turned a deep, bright green. Humming quietly, contently, with life.

When Arthur speaks again, his voice is low, muted. “Why’d you lie, last night, about Owen?”

Merlin turns to him, frowning. “What?”

“When I asked if he’d cornered you before, you lied and said he hadn’t,” Arthur gazes back at him, not angry but sullen. “Come on, Merlin,” he tilts his head, “you had to know Leon would tell me immediately. The same night it happened, in fact. I spent the whole night wishing—wishing I hadn’t let you leave my rooms, that I’d asked you to stay.”

“I didn’t—” Merlin stutters. He shrugs. “I don’t know why I lied. It didn’t seem important, I guess.”

“It’s important to me,” Arthur replies, his mouth downturned. He turns away, eyes distant.

“It’s behind us, anyway,” Merlin tells him. “It’s not like he could’ve done anything to me. Sorcerer, remember?”

“He would’ve found out. He would’ve reported you to my father.”

“Well, he didn’t,” Merlin says. “And nothing happened. You made sure of that.” He pauses, then leans closer to Arthur, trying at a grin. “How did you put it? Camelot wouldn’t ‘get into bed’ with a kingdom where magic is legal.” He huffs out a laugh. “Kind of ironic of you to say that.”

“Kind of hypocritical of me to say that, more like,” Arthur mutters. His mouth thins, eyes dipping down to the windowsill. “He was right. Owen. Magic bans _are_ barbaric.”

Merlin scoffs. “He doesn’t have a moral high ground to stand on.”

“He’s right, Merlin.”

“He’s a _dick_ , Arthur,” Merlin insists. “I mean—yes, he made a point, but that’s it. He’s a dick. He’s—” Merlin shakes his head and laughs. “I can’t believe he and Princess Iona came from the same womb. She’s worlds more pleasant than he is.”

Arthur’s features soften. He nods. “Yeah, she is.”

Merlin watches him carefully. He opens his mouth, then closes it, before finally settling on what he wants to say. “She seems to care about you,” Merlin begins delicately. “She—maybe, in the future, you two could—maybe she’d still say yes, if you—”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, sharp. “Stop.”

“She’s kind, she’s smart—”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek. There’s a quiet rumble of thunder in the distance.

“We’re not through with it,” Merlin says.

“I know,” Arthur sighs.

“Next time, there might not be a way out of it.”

Arthur turns, looks at him. “Might never be a next time.”

Merlin doesn’t think that’s true. There’s always a next time. “But if there is—”

“I’ll never get over you,” Arthur says simply, like it’s fact, like it’s the truest thing he’s ever known. “Even if I marry someone else. I don’t—I can’t help it. I’m not gonna get over you. That’s just how it is, Merlin. That’s just how it’s going to be. And if there is a next time, if I have to take a wife, then I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out. Alright?”

Merlin tries and fails to swallow down the emotion that rises to his throat. He nods, “Alright.” He looks at Arthur, then, follows the line of his brow to his nose to his mouth and then his chin. He finds Arthur’s eyes, watching Merlin back, calm, wide-open, blue as a cold spring tucked deep into one of Camelot’s forests.

Here, in the thin and clouded light with his chest moving softly and his blanket wrapped ‘round his pale, bare shoulders, it’s easy to imagine Arthur in another life entirely—A little cottage in some poor, quiet village, the walls swaying with the storm outside, Arthur’s hands, swift and calloused from a season of farming, sorting rations for the coming months. Arthur grinning softly at him, a quilt Merlin’s mother made him draped around Arthur’s shoulders, as Merlin whispers stars into their ramshackle ceiling just to hear Arthur’s voice name the constellations. Here, they don’t even hear word of Camelot. Here, they are so far from everything not even destiny can reach them.

“Merlin,” Arthur pulls him back softly. His thumb brushes Merlin’s chin, his jaw. “What are you thinking about?”

Merlin blinks. Warmth’s radiating from Arthur. Merlin brings his hands up and finds the soft fabric of Arthur’s blanket.

“Nothing,” he replies, his voice quiet, shaking his head. “Something stupid.”

Thunder sounds in the distance, low, almost melodic.

“Thinking of the storm again?” Arthur says through a grin. He brings a hand up to Merlin’s hair and cards his fingers through it, soothing him even though his tone is teasing. “Don’t worry, Merlin, I won’t let it blow us away.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Prat,” he mutters, but leans into Arthur’s touch anyway, gentle as warm raindrops tapping on the castle’s stone walls.

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from [10:37](https://open.spotify.com/track/4RGbULF7N4dvC01DCiXmRp?si=3TkwjTeQS1-0Aw1GQVkHag) by beach house.
> 
> i feel like this was all over the place, but i hope y'all liked it anyway. comments and kudos are always appreciated 💕❤️


End file.
